


And Makes Me End Where I Begun

by dracofiend



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 08:57:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracofiend/pseuds/dracofiend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal tells Peter a secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Makes Me End Where I Begun

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS. Set immediately after episode 3.7, where Sara and Neal go on that crazy shopping spree to draw out a hacker that drained a Manhattan bank, and then Sara sees the Nazi treasure on Neal’s laptop and breaks it off.

Neal takes Peter up on his offer to talk. _You deserve some happiness,_ Peter had said. _Well, exactly,_ Neal might’ve replied, with an insistent grin, except he’d been all in black, on Peter’s bed, sitting at the edge of the comforter with the goddamn manifest in his hand and the safe door hanging wide from the wall. _Satchmo’s a terrible guard dog,_ he might’ve said. _He’s not a guard dog,_ Peter would’ve answered, and then leaped from the surveillance van to rush on home.

_If you ever want to just talk,_ Peter had said, in that halting way, _I’m here._ And Neal had told Mozzie, _sorry. Sorry. It isn’t here._ He’d returned the manifest in its protective sleeve to the safe in Peter’s walls and slipped out, Peter’s soft voice ringing in his ear, his heart beating hard at the back of his throat.

“I talked to FinCEN this morning,” Peter says as they wait for the elevator. It’s lunch time—they’re going out for sushi. “The flash drive of Suspicious Activity Reports should be here this afternoon, so clear your calendar.”

Neal purses his lips. “Ooh-kay. How many are there, do you remember?” The elevator pings open. Peter shrugs.

“Too many to send via email.” He gives Neal a winning smile. “And any one of those reports could be our smoking gun.”

The sushi place is three and a half blocks away and busy, but fast. They’re on their way back with their rolls and nigiri when Neal finally turns the topic from the money laundering case to Sara.

“Sara,” Peter repeats, sounding like he’s trying not to sound surprised. “Did she call you?”

Neal half-smiles at Peter’s hopeful tone. “I know you really want us to get back together, Yenta, but it’s not going to happen.”

“But you want it to happen, right?” Peter asks, glancing over at Neal. His face is creased with scrutiny and Neal’s returning glance is brief. Neal opens his mouth. “I—”

Peter’s face goes _ah_ ; he’s nodding knowingly and Neal just stares at him.

“What—no,” Neal objects. “Don’t give me the nod. You do not know everything that went down between Sara and me.”

“I don’t need to,” Peter says, with complete confidence. Neal thinks, again, _he caught me. This is why._

“Take it from the guy who’s been married close to fifteen years,” Peter continues, still wearing that all-knowing smile. Neal loves it and hates it and it’ll never get old. “If you’re not sure whether you’re in or you’re out,” Peter advises, “you’re out.”

Neal arches a brow at him.

“It’s true at the beginning and it stays true to the end,” Peter says with a definitive shake of his head. “If you have any doubts, you’re good as doomed.”

“Been watching those Dr. Phil re-runs again, huh?” Neal replies. They reach an intersection and wait for the light. Peter says nothing, and it’s only when they’re halfway across the broad boulevard that Neal succumbs. “It wasn’t just me, you know,” he tells Peter. He tries not to sound too defensive. “Sara wasn’t sure either.”

Peter tilts his head, in the negative. “Doesn’t matter,” he answers. “Women are smart. They always have doubts. The smartest ones know when to listen to their uncertainties and when to set them aside.”

Neal’s chin juts forward. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, clipping the end off the word. “Yeah.” He pauses, looks at Neal. “You think Sara made one?”

Neal holds his gaze. _Yes,_ he opens his mouth to say. _She did. No question she did. I could’ve given her everything—the bungalow in the Maldives, the pied-à-terre in Sao Paolo, the villa in Koh Samui. A new adventure on each horizon and nothing but horizons—blue skies and horizons—every day of her life. We could’ve been together,_ Neal thinks. _We could’ve passed through the world, fixed to each other like two hands of a compass, spinning in the wind._

“You don’t know,” Peter says quietly. The curve of his mouth is no longer smug and Neal’s jaw tightens. His eyes slide from Peter’s face. He takes a deep breath; the weight of Peter’s hand closes around his shoulder, near his neck. Peter’s hand squeezes firmly, holding him hard. Peter releases him, pats at Neal’s shirt collar, and his hand slips away. Neal leans toward Peter, not realizing it until he lifts his head and their shoulders brush.

“What is it about Sara?” Peter asks as they continue down a narrow side street. “I mean, besides the obvious. She’s not your usual type.”

Neal’s head pops up. “I don’t have a type.”

Peter grins. “Yeah you do. Everyone has a type.”

“Really? All right, then what’s your type?” Neal challenges. “And Elizabethan doesn’t count.”

“Eliza--?” Peter laughs. “No. No.” He straightens his back and looks expectantly at Neal.

“Okay,” Neal murmurs. “Smart.”

“Uh-huh,” Peter nods. “Picking the low-hanging fruit.”

“Independent,” Neal says, studying Peter’s expression. “Friendly and talkative, because you aren’t.”

Peter’s mouth goes _whoa_. “I’m not friendly, or talkative?”

Neal simply smiles and ignores the question. “Someone who likes to get out there, see the world—someone who thinks your jokes are funny—which, by the way, rules out 97% of the population—” Peter’s about to cut in—“but that doesn’t matter because your type is someone exceptional anyway—” Peter recedes. “Someone who knows who they are,” Neal says, “someone who knows what they want. Someone who knows that it’s you.” He looks across at Peter, heart full of adrenaline, truth. He’s lost all sense of what his face is saying but it tells Peter something that has Peter’s smile fading from amusement to realization and it’s too much for Neal, too much. Too soon.

“All right, fine, I was describing Elizabeth,” he admits, breaking into his bright _Guilty as charged!_ grin. “But if I’d just said, five-five, brown hair, blue eyes, it would’ve given the game away.”

Peter’s still staring at him, eyes flicking over his face. “Was I wrong?” Neal asks, grinning with everything he’s got.

Peter’s eyes snap to the ground. “Nope,” he shakes his head. “Guess you know me pretty well. But this isn’t about me,” he says, looking at Neal again, his expression clear of that lingering look. “This is about you, and your penchant for women who think dinner and a crime makes a great date night. Which it doesn’t.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” Neal says in an undertone.

Peter angles an eyebrow at Neal. “Sara’s not like that. What’s special about her?”

Neal shrugs, flashes that smile at Peter. “She ran after me.”

Peter’s mouth crooks. “And you like being pursued.”

Neal just tilts his chin to the side. He wants to take off his jacket. He needs air.

“Okay, so what happened?” Peter asks. They round the corner—the FBI building comes into sight. “Don’t tell me she stopped chasing you, she hasn’t recovered that Raphael yet. Has she?”

Neal laughs. He almost reaches out for Peter.

“No, she hasn’t recovered the Raphael yet. She’s still looking for it,” Neal replies. He watches his wingtips, stepping in time with Peter’s. _I don’t cross any lines I can’t come back from,_ she’d said. _And I would never ask you to,_ he’d said. But he’d wanted to. He’d wanted her to want to. “I kept telling her I don’t have it.”

“Uh-huh,” Peter responds. They walk toward the high-rise, thick with FBI. “You really don’t have it?” he asks suddenly.

Neal glances at him sideways. “If I did, you think I’d tell you?”

Peter’s look is reproachful, but what he says is, “So she stopped chasing you. I think she gave up too soon.” He states this as a matter of fact. “If she’d really wanted to find that painting, she should’ve stuck to you, followed you, no matter where you go.”

Neal nods, opens his grin wide. “There’s only one person who’d follow me no matter where I go.” The delivery is perfect—bright and brassy, and he doesn’t look up to see whether it’s worked. He holds his breath for one heartbeat, two.

Peter is silent beside him—then he huffs a short laugh. “Oh, you better believe it,” he replies. Neal’s grin softens. His pulse is sharp in his fingertips. It’s a promise, a warning—it’s what Peter will do.

“No matter where I go,” Neal comments. “Seriously?” They’ve reached the FBI building.

“Yep,” Peter says, and pushes through the revolving door. Neal smiles to himself and follows.


End file.
